


may we remember

by aaronminyxrd



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Book(s), basically achilles (and later patroclus) in elysium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:32:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7273723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaronminyxrd/pseuds/aaronminyxrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>even in death, the gods are adamant to weave a tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	may we remember

**Author's Note:**

> what did achilles do when patroclus wasnt there?  
> i asked this to myself and this was made alskfkj

**I.**

_“Patroclus.”_

This word, this name is the first to leave my lips as I woke to the green fields of Elysium. My eyes searched for him, and my heart yearned for his presence, but he was not here. I do not know how long it has been since I have arrived; the trial to be granted access to Elysium was short and mostly unmemorable, though a conversation had left me quite perplexed and somewhat aggravated. I cannot seem to recall it, however. The only thing that comes to my mind these days, is him.

He is in the breeze that lightly grazes my skin, the grass that crunches softly beneath my feet, the bittersweet scent of the flowers. He is in the soft and the hard, the melodic and the raucous. He is Elysium itself: beautiful and haunting all at once, something you wished to truly be real, and once this is confirmed, he becomes something ethereal, unexplainable, something you never want to leave or believe that it is even possible to do so.

To me, this what he will be, always. Eternal.

But even in death, it seems the gods are adamant to weave a tragedy.

Then again, isn’t Elysium where all tragedies go? It is the epitome of the word. Perhaps that is also why it reminds me so much of him.

The land is filled with heroes. They speak of stories and victories and losses, but the tales most often recalled are the ones in which they finally fell.

 _Pride._ They say. _Ignorance. Love._

I smile bitterly. Mine were all of these things.

“You know, Achilles.” one of them says. “Many choose rebirth, and so could you.”

 _So could you._ I will not lie, the idea was very appealing, for with rebirth comes the potential of a happier, _normal_ life, but would it really be so, without him?

And so, I politely replied, “No, I don’t think I could.”

“All right. The option is always open, especially if you forget.”

_Especially if you forget._

I remember now, what had been so haunting about the trial.

“What of Patroclus?” I had asked.

“What of him?” one replied. “Do not fret, you will forget soon enough. Almost all of them do. What is one lover in a sea of triumphs, no?”

Heroes also spoke of their fears. Big and small and somewhat silly, but there was no shame here, no one to impress.

I had never engaged in these conversations, for my answer was short and always the same.

But now, I realize I was never afraid of death or loss or separation.

_What are you afraid of?_

I am afraid that one day, I will forget his name. I am afraid that one day, I will forget him in his entirety.

 

**II.**

Even in death, the gods are adamant to weave a tragedy.

It begins with the color of his eyes. Were they gray or brown or a sombre green? Blue or hazel? I cannot remember.

His laugh. Was it soft or loud? His touch. Was it tentative or bold? Was it both? I cannot remember.

The way he said my name, always loving, always hopeful. _The way he said my name._ I cannot remember.

I cannot remember. I cannot remember. I cannot remember, and I am terrified I never will.

I say his name, slowly.

“ _Patroclus.”_ And I say it again and again and again.

I do not wish to forget. I do not wish for anything more. I would give up Elysium if it meant that I would never forget the way he said my name, the way he kissed my skin, my lips.

I would walk in Asphodel for all my afterlife if it meant that I would remember.

I do not want to forget. I will say his name every hour of every day until I remember, until no one can forget, so he may be forged into existence forever.

 

**III.**

“Achilles,” a hero asks me, “what is love?”

I stare at them, unable to respond, unable to do anything but to ask a question in return. “Why?”

She leans closer to me now. “Perhaps an easier question, then? Do you love this man you always speak of? Patroclus.”

“Yes.” Barely a heartbeat passed in my reply.

“But how do you know? How do you know if it really is love?”

“Love is different for everyone, I think. I do not know.” I can feel a frown begin to form. I am usually more articulate than this. “You see, with Patroclus, I am not a hero. Well, I might still be so in his eyes, but I don’t _feel_ like one. He chastises me, is honest with me, he _grounds_ me. I do not have to show him ridiculous acts of grandeur, I do not have to hide. He makes me feel _real._

But at the same time, he aggravates me, and I aggravate him. We argue. We fight. We misunderstand each other often. And yet, we always...

I think... that is what love is. To acknowledge both the sweet and the bitter, the good and the bad. To suffer through hardships and celebrate victories, to support and to know where to draw a line. To ground and to bring out the best in each other. Most importantly, I think that it is to consciously and continuously make that choice every day. The choice to love and willingly hand your heart, your mind, your body, and your soul.

To become a part of a whole, while remaining true to yourself. To have regrets, but try to fix them, or to live with them anyway. I think that love is that constant choice.”

Tears well up in her eyes, and she wipes them away hurriedly before turning to me once more. “Are you, too, afraid? Of forgetting?”

“More than anything. You have someone as well, then?”

She looks up, a small smile on her face. “I do. Hopefully, she is happy.”

She turns to leave, but not before addressing me for a final time. “May we remember.”

The words I had said continue to turn in my mind.

Perhaps I will forget his scent, his touch, his voice, but I will never forget this feeling. I know that if anything, I will never forget his love.

“May we remember.”

 

**IV.**

In the darkness, a shadow, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Our hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.

_I...I thought I lost you.  Gods, I missed you, I missed you, I missed you._

I have forgotten many things, and lost many memories, but as our hands intertwine, I realize that he is the only memory I need, the only thing I need to remember in the end.

He says my name, and I say his.

We kiss and we kiss and we kiss until his lips are sore and my chest begins to heave.

Hand in hand, we walk in Elysium.

Even in death, the gods are adamant to weave a tragedy---it’s just a matter of whether or not you choose to cut the thread.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! <33


End file.
